The Weight of the World
by Peachdreamsandperseus
Summary: "With a sigh, he draws back his shoulders and stands tall and proud despite feeling as though the very weight of the world is upon them. Gone is the boy who was once afraid of the responsibility that fate would one day bring him and in his place is a man who vows to make the most of the hand he's been dealt." Summer 1939 - George receives some much needed advice from Cousin Sybbie.


_**This is just a quick something that popped into my head whilst I was revising this afternoon and it's definitely a relationship I'd like to explore more in the future. I remember reading somewhere that, after one earl died, his successor wouldn't be known by his title until after the funeral as a mark of respect - though I could be making this up (there's so much going on in my head right now that I can't be sure). I did try doing my research, but the only thing I could find was what I already knew about what happens to property if a minor inherits. Let's just call it artistic license, shall we? One last thing - Sybbie is nineteen here and George (as we now know to be the name of Mary and Matthew's son) is seventeen, mere weeks of being eighteen. Enjoy and, as ever, let me know what you think :) x**_

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**August 1939**

It's just minutes to midnight and the day that will see his life changed forever.

These are his last few moments of being just plain old Master George Crawley, son of the late Mr Matthew and Lady Mary Crawley, and instead he will assume the mantle of the Right Honourable George, earl of Grantham. Tomorrow is the day they commit his grandfather's body to the ground beside those of his father, his aunt and his five other predecessors in that tiny little churchyard in the village that is now essentially his responsibility.

He looks up when he hears the sound of her bare feet on the cold stone of the patio - a sound which his ears alone are attuned to. Ever since they were children together she's been so good at sneaking up on people, but never on him.

"I thought I'd find you here," she says, the thin silk of her dress and the loose strands of hair around her face fluttering in the cool summer breeze. Black is a very becoming colour on his cousin - it's a striking contrast to her porcelain skin, enhancing the vivid blue of her eyes and the pink of her full lips, though it's a colour that has been worn far too many times by one so young.

"Then you know me better than I know myself right now," replies George, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "I'm scared, Syb," he admits after a moment of silence.

Sybbie (for she has always been Sybbie to her nearest and dearest) sighs as she sits down beside him, handing him one of the two glasses of whisky she's holding and accepting a cigarette in return. "Of what?" she asks. Despite already knowing the answer, she needs to hear him open up to her - he's so much like his mother in that he's perfected the art of keeping that aristocratic mask in place and needs a little bit of encouragement to open up about his feelings.

"I'm not ready for this... I can't be an earl."

"Yes you can," she says softly yet there's a sternness to her words that make her come across as being far beyond her years and with an accent somewhere between her father's native Irish and the cut glass English of her youth. Having left Downton for Dublin when she was ten years old, Sybbie is the perfect blend of two cultures and backgrounds, making her one of the most intriguing young women to make her debut into society for quite some time. That had been a decision that she had made herself the previous summer - nobody had pushed her into it and not even her father had tried to persuade her otherwise. It was something that she felt as though she had to, being the last in the line of Crawley women and to bring her close to the memory of a mother she never knew. "Do you want to know why?"

"I suppose you're going to tell me anyway, no matter what my answer is," replies George with a smirk.

"You can do this because there are so many people who love you and will help you through this, just as they have your entire life."

George smiles back at her as he undoes his bowtie, letting it hand loosely around his neck and takes a sip of whisky - it's Irish, but then he'd expect nothing less from her. "They say you sound an awful lot like her, you know... Aunt Sybil."

"I know. Da said that it helps him to remember... not that he'd ever forget though. He says it's one of the things that kept him going, the fact that we're so alike... is it possible to miss somebody that you never even knew?"

George shakes his head. "No, I feel exactly the same way over Papa." Setting his glass down on the step beside him, he runs a hand through his hair and groans. "He should be the one taking all this on, not me... why isn't he here?"

"Because life is cruel and the hand of death even more so."

"Very poetic."

"What can I say? I'm a writer... it's in my nature."

George laughs. "So have you decided that's what you want to do once you've finished with University?"

"I don't know yet," replies Sybbie, taking a long of her cigarette and watching as the smoke trails a ladder to the stars. "I have another year or so to figure that out but I think I want to travel... there's so much out there just waiting to be discovered and all I've seen of it is Britain and Ireland."

"It's hardly safe at the moment though, is it?" he asks. "Do you really think there'll be another war?"

"I suppose it's inevitable really," she answers. "Though you can hear the fear in their voices whenever they talk about it. They thought that the last one would be the war to end all wars and yet here we are on the brink of another. What will **you** do if there is? Will you fight?"

"I don't think I'd have much of a choice... Papa did, and Grandpapa too. I suppose I owe it to the family... to do my duty."

"You don't owe anybody anything," she interrupts. "My father says that there is **always** a choice... you'll figure something out if and when the time comes, but just promise me you won't make any rash decisions."

"I promise," he replies with a smile. "Though only on the condition that you promise to take me on one of your adventures... isn't that what young viscounts do? Go off on these voyages of '_self discovery_' and whatnot?"

"Perhaps... though you're an earl, not a viscount."  
"Please don't remind me. At least not until tomorrow."

"But it **is** tomorrow," she tells him. "And I know that Grandpapa left some very big shoes to be filled, but I have every faith in you to do him and Uncle Matthew proud."

"You've been spending too much time with Mama," he half laughs. "She said just as much to me after... well... the day he died."

Sybbie smiles sympathetically. "I'm glad to have had her as part of my life... Da's been wonderful, but sometimes a girl just needs a woman to turn to." Mary had loved Sybbie as one of her own since the day she had been born - as the years had gone by, she had felt a need to take her niece under her wing and do her little sister proud by helping her daughter through the notoriously difficult transition into womanhood. Sure enough, it had been Mary whom Sybbie had run to when she'd wanted to know what the fluttering in her tummy was when the blacksmith's boy had kissed her in the stables when they were nine, at twelve when she got her first period that Christmas they'd come to Downton, and when she'd wanted advice on how to break the news to her father that she was being courted for the first time by a charming young man she'd met in her first month at Cambridge.

"I feel the same about Uncle Tom," replies George. "He'll never replace my father but, together with Grandpapa, he was one of the closest things I'll ever have to one."

"Do you ever wonder why neither of them married again?"

"No, not really," he says. "You and I have known the stories since we were children... you only come across a love like the ones they had once in your life and not everyone is happy to settle for second best when you'll forever have that memory of something so perfect. Yes, I believe that they were, and probably still are, capable of finding love again though I doubt it would be the same."

"And I thought **I **was supposed to be the family romantic," laughs Sybbie. "I suppose you're right though and I know that, if I'm ever lucky enough to know a love like theirs, I'll make each and every second of it count."

"So you haven't found it with Charlie then?"

Sybbie shakes her head. "No, we decided to call things off last month. He'd just graduated and was going up to medical school in Edinburgh last I heard... I'm rather glad though, to be honest, I can't really say that I felt anything for him towards the end and I was beginning to feel wretched for leading him on. Thankfully, he felt the same way about me."

"Is it true that his mother was a housemaid here during the war?"

She shrugs and stubs out the last of her cigarette. "I heard the rumour but it wasn't something I ever asked about directly. Besides, if it is true then we were quite a good match... there are some in society to whom I will forever be known as the chauffeur's daughter."

"But you're so much more than that and so is your father," her cousin says, getting to his feet and offering her a hand to help her up. "You've done both your parents proud."

"And this is exactly what I've been telling you, you silly fool," she laughs and pulls him into a tight embrace. "You'll always be my baby brother, Georgie, and I love you so much... you **can** do this. Just have half as much faith in yourself as the rest of us do and you'll be fine."

"Thank you," he whispers. "You're a real godsend sometimes... now, come on, we should probably get off to bed. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"You're absolutely right," replies Sybbie, stepping back from him and smoothing out her dress. "Goodnight, Lord Grantham."

"Goodnight, Miss Branson."

Once she's gone, picks up the glasses from the floor and takes a moment to compose his thoughts. There's a warmth in his heart now and a fire in his blood that has nothing to do with the whisky - his dear cousin's words have unlocked the confidence that he's been lacking these past few days and he knows now that he can do this. There will be some who will be expecting him to run before he can walk, but at least those he loves are following close behind ready to catch him should he fall. With a sigh, he draws back his shoulders and stands tall and proud despite feeling as though the very weight of the world is upon them. Gone is the boy who was once afraid of the responsibility that fate would one day bring him and in his place is a man who vows to make the most of the hand he's been dealt.

He is George Crawley, seventh earl of Grantham, and he will do everything in his power to make his family proud.


End file.
